


Noble Savages

by yuletide_archivist



Category: La Chanson de Roland | The Song of Roland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-17
Updated: 2006-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roland wants Olivier, Ogier doesn't want to get involved, Turpin is already too involved, and Naimes sits back and wonders at all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noble Savages

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SJ Kasabi

 

 

Although this is primarily based on the _Chanson de Roland_ , it would be only fair to say that it is also something of an amalgamation of the traditions of several chansons de geste, most notably the _Chanson d'Aspremont_ and _La Chevalerie d'Ogier de Danemarche_. It might also have some elements of Middle English Charlemagne romances, especially _Sege of Melayne_ , at least in terms of characterization.

****************

**I. The tree.**

The sinking sun was slowly drowning in the black depths of the Pyrenees, and Olivier, watching its slow death from the top branches of a black pine, couldn't suppress a shudder at a gust of wind spiraling suddenly out of the north.

"It is true that we are born to die," he said softly to himself, "yet actively wishing for that death is not within our nature."

A hoarse shout from below shattered his thoughts just as the sun was finally dipping below the peaks: "What are you doing up there? Everyone's looking for you!"

Olivier leaned out cautiously, peering down through the gathering dusk. A red cloak, billowing thickly in the wind, the tunic and cross-gartered legs of a soldier paired paradoxically with a miter perched precariously on black hair, a crosier pointing accusingly at him--Turpin of Reims, doubtless. He cupped one hand and called down, "Did Roland send you?"

"Did Roland what?" Turpin bellowed back. "Do I look like Roland's personal emissary? Get down here, his Majesty'll be sore if you don't come to supper."

"I'm not hungry, cousin." Olivier leaned his back against the tree trunk and settled himself down more comfortably.

"If you don't come down, I'm coming up to get you myself!"

"You're getting a bit old for that, don't you think?" Olivier teased, not doubting for a moment that Turpin would see his threat through to the finish.

"What's that you say?" The archbishop, incredulous, had flung off his cloak, divested himself of both miter and crosier and was in the lower branches of the tree before Olivier even had the presence of mind to find a pinecone to chuck at his kinsman's head. Turpin was beside him in a flash, threatening and full of fire, and Olivier was yelling, "Not in a tree, Turpin! I'll fall and break my neck!"

"God's bones, you would deserve it," the archbishop said in a surly tone of voice, straddling Olivier's branch, face-to-face with the younger chevalier. " _Ma foi_! When you've seen eighty winters and I, ninety-seven, then we can sit around in our long robes and mumble into our long beards about being too old for scaling trees and wooing women and slicing off Saracen limbs, but until then, sir, I beg you not to restrict me to my vestments."

"God forbid," Olivier grinned. "I had nearly forgotten your office, your Grace, considering that no one's seen you in vestments for some time now."

"Not since last Sunday, at least," Turpin said, rolling his eyes. He glanced at Olivier sideways through narrowed blue eyes, and suddenly said, "I didn't come from Roland, but it doesn't take a great philosopher to divine that he's worried about you."

Olivier groaned. "If you came all the way up here to speak to me of Roland, well, you can just go right back down the way you came."

"I'm not taking sides," Turpin replied quickly, a little angry. "Far be it from me to show any personal preference between my kinsman and my best friend, but you could at least acknowledge that he cares." He scratched at the back of his neck, cursing when his episcopal ring tangled itself into his hair. "Myself, I think you're both idiots."

"How is that any different from your usual high opinion of us?" Olivier muttered, glaring down at his hands in his lap.

"Don't speak to me as if I were Ganelon, you little cretin. I'm only giving you my advice." Turpin picked at the pine needles surrounding him with an almost fierce sense of vengeance.

Another blast of wind left the needles shivering and the two chevaliers in stony silence. Finally, Olivier lifted dark eyes to regard the archbishop, and said harshly, "He's so pig-headed. It makes me wish...I don't know."

"He loves you, you know." Turpin's voice, not accustomed to being used at such a gentle volume, sounded rasping in the thick silence of the dark. When Olivier remained silent, the archbishop shrugged and gave his characteristic laugh, half mocking, half self-deprecating. "That's never changed, in all these years."

"I know." Olivier gave a small smile, and added, "He and I are practically brothers--why else would I give him my sister to wife?"

Turpin laughed again, this one an odd hollow laugh, but he said nothing else.

They sat in silence for another moment or two before the sound of light boots crunching through pine needles was heard from below. A voice with a thick northern accent was heard, musing loudly, "Hm, a miter and a crosier lying on the ground all by themself...! It's almost an invitation for theft!"

"Don't touch my things, Ogier," Turpin yelled down, then glanced seriously at Olivier. "Come down for supper. It'll please him greatly."

"My dear archbishop, are you begging?" The younger knight grinned.

"It's as close to it as you'll ever get." Turpin swung himself off the branch and dangled there, clinging to it with both hands. He looked up at Olivier, prepared to make the jump to the ground. "Can it hurt to at least talk to him?"

Olivier shook his head. "I suppose not."

"Good." Turpin let himself drop to the ground, landing on heavily on his feet beside Ogier the Dane. Olivier watched as the two older chevaliers gave each other a few good-natured shoves before Turpin donned his cloak and miter again and the two made their way towards the king's tent. When he reached the edge of the camp, Turpin turned, his figure a fiery orange in the torchlight, jewels glowing dimly on his miter, and he waved in the direction of Olivier's tree. Olivier laughed softly to himself, and, wrapping his cloak tightly around his shoulders and out of his way, began his descent back to earth.

 

**II. The king's tent.**

Roland lay back on the white carpet with a sigh that didn't escape the notice of either his uncle or his stepfather.

"What's wrong, son?" Ganelon poured himself another goblet of wine, smiling with almost devilish charm. "Lovesick, as usual?"

Roland closed his eyes, and pretended not to have heard.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Charles's voice had trouble sounding tender, but Roland recognized the effort when he heard it.

"Forgive me, my lord," the chevalier replied, sitting up again and inclining his head in deference to the king. "I'm not particularly hungry tonight."

"Just listen to you--you sound just like that other stubborn fellow, moping around with your empty stomach and your silly hurt feelings." Turpin settled himself to Roland's right, glancing sideways at his friend as he did so.

"All hail his Grace, returned from some mission of high holiness, to be sure," Ganelon said loudly, with the slightest trace of a sneer, raising his goblet in Turpin's direction.

The archbishop glared back at him, and opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reply, but shut it again upon meeting Charles's eyes.

"Is Olivier still angry with me?" Roland asked anxiously, laying his hand on Turpin's shoulder and lowering his voice so that Ganelon couldn't hear.

The archbishop turned back to his friend. "As I was saying, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted"--the venomous look he shot across the table at Roland's stepfather was whole-heartedly returned--"your companion will be down to supper any moment."

"`Down'?" Roland cocked an eyebrow, but Turpin kept talking over him.

"Roland, you need to apologize. He wants to talk with you, but I can tell you right now, he won't be satisfied unless you say you're sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Roland asked, genuinely confused.

"For being a pig-headed whoreson, for one thing," Turpin said matter-of-factly, pouring wine for himself and for Roland.

"I am not a--!" Roland broke off when the tent flap pulled back to reveal Olivier.

"Come in, dear boy," Charles said, his imperious voice making the kind request sound like an order. "Sit here."

Turpin moved closer to Roland on the carpet to make room for Olivier on the archbishop's right side. "Here's your chance," Turpin murmured, although it seemed unclear to which chevalier the encouragement was directed. He then set himself firmly to the task of supper, ignoring the two younger men seated on either side of him and leaving them to stare at each other behind his back.

Olivier glanced down the table until he had assured himself that the other chevaliers had lost interest in them, and finally he leaned across Turpin and said softly to Roland, "I'm sorry."

Roland blinked, but replied instinctively, "So I am."

Turpin smiled.

Olivier continued: "I was thinking, and I couldn't help but feel that life's so brief that I really don't have time to hold grudges."

"I was being a...a pig-headed whoreson, I'm sorry," Roland blurted out, and Turpin nearly choked on his food, but heroically resisted the excruciating urge to provide commentary.

Olivier smiled in response, and murmured, "We'll talk after supper."

Ganelon watched the exchange taking place across the table from him with avid interest, although he couldn't hear what the two chevaliers were saying. He was lying back on the cushions, tracing imaginary circles around and around the pommel stone of the dagger hanging at his belt, and his eyes were keenly fixed on the face of his stepson. He was startled out of his thoughts when Turpin, looking up from his plate abruptly, met his gaze and began to stare him down. Ganelon snorted and shook his head, muttering, "Go get a tonsure, you stupid priest," but he didn't offer any challenge, and until the end of the meal he occupied himself by building little sculptures out of the mash on his plate.

 

**III. The chevaliers' tent.**

The tent was a mess, Olivier noted as they arrived home at last after supper. He managed to find a pallet that wasn't strewn with clothing and settled himself there, waiting for Roland to finish divesting himself of his many weapons.

"Am I really forgiven?" Roland said finally, throwing himself down on the pillows beside Olivier.

"Do you doubt it?" Olivier asked with pretended hauteur, lying back on the pallet.

Roland shifted onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, and laughed. "No, when you say something is so, it's always so."

They lay in silence for a few minutes, until Olivier finally glanced at his friend out of corner of his eye. Roland was staring back at him with intense eyes, burning bright brown in the lamplight with something that wasn't laughter. Olivier felt uncomfortable beneath that scrutinizing gaze, and he broke the contact with a soft kind of strangled cough.

Roland remained silent, but Olivier, having closed his eyes to avoid that strange look, thought he felt the brush of fingertips against his shoulder. His eyes flew open again just as the force of Roland's lips pressed against his own pushed the back of his head firmly against the pallet. Olivier realized in a moment that Roland was on top of him, bracing himself with an elbow lying on either side of Olivier's head, and the younger chevalier suddenly panicked. He gave Roland a violent shove with all the force in him, sending the other man sprawling.

Olivier sat up, chest heaving, and said, "What...?"

Roland didn't answer, lying dazed on his back.

The younger chevalier's breath gasping in and out was the only sound for a few moments, then he finally said, "I don't pretend to understand, Roland."

Roland sat up slightly, murmuring, "Olivier..."

Olivier waited for him to say more, and, with nothing forthcoming from his mortified companion, he looked away, and said haltingly, "I should..."

"Olivier," said Roland, more frantically.

The gentle rustle of the tent flap closing behind Olivier's retreating back was his only response.

 

**IV. The archbishop's tent.**

Turpin was lying flat on his back in the tent he shared with Naimes when Ogier poked his head in.

"Turpin, is Naimes here?" the Norseman asked, hardly glancing twice at the archbishop on the floor.

"Does he appear to be here?" Turpin replied sourly, lifting his head slightly to glare at the intruder before letting it fall back to the ground.

Ogier, not discouraged in the least by the less-than-enthusiastic welcome, stepped inside. "I see that he is not."

Turpin rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in one of the pillows strewn about the sleeping area. His visitor sat beside him, uninvited.

"Are you pouting in here all by yourself?" Ogier asked mildly. "This is not like you, _vinr_."

"I'm not pouting," Turpin mumbled into the pillow. "I'm just preoccupied. Moreover, I would prefer you to leave me to my preoccupation."

Ogier shrugged, saying, "You would tell Naimes what was wrong, wouldn't you. Why not me?"

"Naimes would be able to guess without my telling him," Turpin said harshly, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

Ogier was silent for a moment, as if sifting through his thoughts, and he finally said, "Turpin, do you remember the first time we meet?"

"What manner of question is that?" Turpin said with a touch of impatience, although he was smiling faintly now. "You were a fugitive from the king's law, pathetic, filthy, ragged, without a horse or entourage or weapon to your name, hiding in a bunch of bushes like a stray cat. Of course I remember."

"You saved my life," Ogier said simply. It was as if nothing else needed to be said about it, as far as he was concerned; the weight of the life-debt on his shoulders was sufficient.

The archbishop's expression softened, and he said, "That was a long time ago now, Ogier."

"I haven't forgot it," the Norseman replied, again succinct, yet full of speeches and speeches worth of fierce emotion.

"I..." Turpin couldn't find any words, so he laid a hand on his old friend's shoulder instead, and said, "It's Roland I'm concerned about."

"I could have guessed that as well as Naimes could have," said Ogier with a pinched smile. "He's in love, or so he says."

"He told you that?" Turpin glanced at the other man, startled.

"Don't be so surprised, Turpin. Although it were you who taught him his letters when he were a boy, it were me who taught him the sword," Ogier replied with great dignity to counteract his poor knowledge of the Frankish language. "He tells me everything he would tell you."

The archbishop shook his head ruefully. "Yes, I ought to have known."

"Do you wish him happiness?" Ogier asked cautiously. "For it seems to me that he will not be happy unless Olivier returns his love and you keep out of the way."

"No, I wish him joy, certainly." Turpin turned away, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "I'd die to bring him even a drop of happiness, if it would do any good."

Naimes slipped into the tent at that moment, saying, "What's this talk of death, Turpin? Cheer up, friends, you look as if you've just arrived from a funeral."

"Hullo, Naimes," said Ogier without looking away from the archbishop, who was toying with the episcopal ring on his right hand and staring into space.

"Am I interrupting something...?" The Bavarian looked at his friends, uncertain.

Turpin looked up at him suddenly. "Yes, but you can be forgiven for doing so. It wasn't very important, anyway."

"Ah," said Naimes, nodding. He undid the clasp to his cloak and hung the garment on the rack beside the tent's entrance, then added, "It's about Roland, then."

"Oh, Hell's teeth," Turpin said, falling back onto his pillows again. "Can't you all just go away and let an old man languish in peace?"

"Don't refer to yourself as old in my presence," Naimes said, bringing a pitcher of wine and three goblets and settling himself beside Ogier on the floor. "It makes me depressed."

"We _are_ old now," Turpin muttered fatalistically. "We three. I'm always telling the bachelors that we're still as fresh as they are, but I swear every time I'm out in the field with them, I feel my old bones creaking."

"God's blood, Turpin, but love makes you a real bore," Ogier said, pouring the wine and offering a goblet to the archbishop.

Turpin sat up and received the cup with a grimace. "It isn't love, at least not in the way you might think. Roland and I go back years and years, and there's been lust between us, God forgive, but it's hardly more than a strange sort of friendship."

"Oh, you can say whatever you please," Naimes said, taking a deep draught of wine, "but you're still against the idea of him seducing Olivier, aren't you."

"Listen to yourself!" Turpin said testily. "Of course I'm against it! Olivier de Vienne is my kinsman--"

"Only your third cousin, if my memory serves me correctly," Naimes interjected, sipping his wine.

"However distant, kin is kin," Turpin resumed firmly, "and I do not appreciate any attempt to seduce him, as you so delicately put it. And with Roland involved...It bothers me a bit, yes."

Ogier refilled his goblet with a faintly bitter smile. "And you yet encourage them."

"What else can I do?" Turpin shrugged, waving one hand dismissively. "As I've already said, I'd do anything to make Roland happy."

"You do spoil that boy, Turpin," Naimes said, then, seeming to remember something, added, "Oh! I meant to tell you: his Majesty seems fairly certain that we'll be breaking camp on Thursday and heading south into Moorish lands."

Ogier's face brightened noticeably, and although the respectable amount of wine he'd imbibed may have had something to do with it, his excitement at the prospect of battle was obvious. "Well, by God! Some action at last, instead of this unbearable stagnation."

"Are you so prepared to become a martyr, friend Ogier?" The archbishop asked with a lugubrious sigh.

"Fine words for you to say," Naimes laughed. "You're the first one in armor whenever the prospect of a battle is on the horizon."

Turpin sniffed. "You mistake me, sir. I derive no pleasure from battle--it is my duty, not my choice."

"Mm, watch what you swear to, your Grace, for unrepentant liars are even more displeasing in the sight of the Lord than priests who bear arms." Naimes would surely have gone on to dispense even more invaluable wisdom, but for the sudden entrance of a terribly agitated Roland.

Turpin glanced up over the rim of his cup with perfectly composed, if slightly bleary, eyes. "What's wrong now?"

Roland offered no immediate reply. He crossed the tent's space in two long strides, grabbing the archbishop by the arm and dragging him to his feet despite the advantage Turpin had over him in height and weight.

"What's--Stop that, _ma foi_ , who do you think you are!" Turpin said, irritated at being manhandled so cavalierly by a man fifteen years his junior. "See here, boy, this is my tent, and I don't appreciate--"

The look Roland gave him was wildly contemptuous, and Naimes and Ogier, for their part, seemed too shocked to do much more than stare stupidly. Turpin sighed and, seeing no remedy for it, allowed the chevalier to haul him out of the tent into the darkness of the camp. Once outside, he seized hold of Roland's arm with his free hand and easily twisted out of the younger man's grip.

"What on God's green earth is wrong with y--" The archbishop was cut off again, this time by Roland's feverish lips. Turpin, more than slightly drunk, put up little resistance, and it took him a few moments to gather enough self-control to manage to nudge Roland away.

" _Ma foi_." The archbishop straightened his vestments, eyeing his former student with what he hoped passed for disdain and not longing. "Won't you just tell me what's wrong with you, instead of teasing me then making me guess?"

Roland said nothing, just sank to the ground beside Turpin, who could see in the faint torchlight that his friend's shoulders were shuddering. He crouched down beside the chevalier, suddenly regretting his natural harshness. Before he could find words, though, Roland murmured, "Forgive my stupidity, Turpin."

The archbishop just shook his head with a vague smile. "What are you talking about, boy."

Roland looked up at him. "Olivier hates me, and it wouldn't do to have you hating me, too."

"What did you do now?" Turpin would have laughed, but Roland's look was painfully serious.

"I...I did what you told me not to do."

"And what's that?" Turpin's heart began sinking into his stomach with apprehension.

"I kissed him."

Turpin gripped him by the shoulders. "You did what? But I told you that he wouldn't--" He broke off with a kind of rasping groan deep in his chest, but decided for once not to pursue it. Nevertheless, he was unable to resist a final sullen, "I _told_ you not to. It was too soon."

"I know," Roland said, and added with swift desperation, "But if you had seen him, in that moment, with the lamplight gleaming against his hair..." He trailed away, charmed by the memory.

Turpin sighed. "So what did he say?"

Dragged so unceremoniously back into the present, Roland's reply was disconsolate. "He didn't say much, just left."

"But what exactly did he _say_?" the archbishop pressed.

Roland thought hard, and said, "I don't rightly remember...I think he said something about being confused, and that--yes, that was it!--he didn't understand. That was all."

Turpin rocked back on his heels, lost in thought. Finally he said, "Well, what did _you_ say?"

"Nothing." Roland shook his head, full of self-reproach. " _Nothing!_ I was so stupid! I should have said something, anything."

"Yes, you probably should have," said Turpin, still occupied with his thoughts. "Hum."

They sat in silence for a moment, until Ogier stuck his head out of the tent and asked hesitantly, "Is everything all right?" When neither seemed to notice him, he touched Turpin's shoulder lightly, causing the archbishop to start.

"Hm! Oh, it's you, Ogier." Turpin relaxed again, standing slowly. Roland glanced up at his two teachers as they conversed in low voices above him.

"Things have come to a head earlier than I anticipated," the archbishop murmured to the Dane, and the soldier in Ogier, nodding his profound understanding of the circumstances culled from that one ambiguous assessment, promptly took charge of the situation.

"Roland, go to the armory," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "I meet you at the sparring field in five minutes."

"But arms practice, Ogier? At this hour...?" Roland stood shakily, glancing from Ogier to Turpin and back again.

"Do not disrespect me by answering me so," the Norseman replied coldly, and his heavy accent lent a strange kind of authority to his words.

Once Roland had gone, Ogier turned to his old friend. "You are not hurt?"

"Am I what?" replied Turpin incredulously. "Do you think that skinny little twit could actually hurt me, even if he wanted to?"

Ogier looked unconvinced, but instead of answering, he said, "Turpin, you must find your kinsman and calm him. If he was to denounce Roland to Charles for perversion or anything of the sort, we will be in trouble, all of us. I'll occupy Roland while you smooth over things with Olivier."

"Olivier wouldn't do that," Turpin said, but he didn't sound entirely certain himself.

Ogier nodded. "I hope you're right." With that, he slipped inside the tent, grabbed his sword and cloak from the rack, and returned to the archbishop's side, saying, "God speed." Turpin crossed himself distractedly, and the two went their separate ways, leaving Naimes to finish the wine alone and wonder where everyone else had disappeared to.

 

**V. The sparring field.**

When Olivier glanced up finally from his feet, he realized that he had wandered nearly the entire outer loop of the camp until he had reached the sparring field, on the far edge of the camp; it looked like the terrain of some foreign planet, its craters and vast barrenness brushed by the weak moonbeams, and Olivier felt a shiver run through him when the wind whistled in the surrounding pine grove. It was then that he saw Roland, approaching from the armory with a wooden practice sword in hand, his hair very pale blond in the moonlight, his body moving through the heavy nighttime gloom with the sleek effortlessness of a shadow. Roland didn't see him.

Olivier shivered again, remembering the feel of another man's body against his, what warmth there had been between two mouths sealing together in a shameful promise. He had given his sister to this man, his blood brother, and this man had accepted her as his wife--what more could be said?

"And yet." Olivier watched as Roland crossed the field and took up a stance against an invisible enemy. He made up his mind without warning. "Roland!"

"Ogier?" Roland turned, letting the sword fall. He faltered when he recognized Olivier, and he said awkwardly, "I didn't expect you would ever speak to me again."

Olivier approached him without glancing up. "That would be ridiculous."

Roland shuffled about, acutely self-conscious. "But you're disgusted..."

Olivier shrugged.

Roland bit his lip to stop from blurting out something stupid. When Olivier said nothing, he finally murmured, "...You're not?"

Olivier shrugged again, and said, "Turpin says you love me. Of course he meant differently than I took his meaning...He's probably laughing at me behind my back, dumb priest." He gave Roland an oblique glance, with the slightest of smiles. "Did everyone know but me?"

Roland couldn't help but laugh softly. "Probably. I'm rather transparent, or so Ogier tells me."

"I feel so stupid," Olivier said, shaking his head. "You must think me a simpleton."

Roland laid a shaking hand clumsily on his companion's shoulder. "No, I...No."

Olivier glanced at the hand. "I'm not disgusted," he said carefully, weighing each word. He reached out, fingers brushing over Roland's shoulder, his palm coming to rest lightly against Roland's chest. "They say many soldiers turn to each other while on campaign...I mean, they find comfort in...What I mean is, it's not so very odd." He broke off, embarrassed, but didn't resist when Roland pulled him close and kissed him.

Standing in the shadow of the armory tent, Turpin of Reims watched the two chevaliers drag each other towards their shared tent, never breaking their embrace for a moment. He suddenly heard the soft crunch of footsteps behind him, but before he could reach for his sword, the faintly lingering scent of salted herring and leather that marked the person of Ogier the Dane reached his senses. Turpin remained silent, even when he felt his friend's large gloved hand kneading into his shoulder, soothing and steadying him.

"You wanted this, _vinr_." Ogier's voice was quiet in the dark.

Turpin closed his eyes, and said, "God forgive me."

 

**VI. The grove.**

"It's not a matter of pride," Olivier said firmly, raising his head slightly from where it lay on Roland's stomach. "It's a matter of duty."

"Duty, pride, are those not the same thing?" said Ogier, glancing up from the armor he was polishing.

"Perhaps they are in _your_ language," said Ganelon with brusque arrogance, half-listening to the conversation.

"Perhaps you would enjoy my fist in your face," said Ogier, annoyed, looking back down to his work.

"I would say duty constitutes something one owes to someone else, while pride is a selfish matter, what one owes to oneself," Olivier continued, unfazed by the interruption. "In this case, we are fighting the Saracens because of our duty to combat paganism in the name of truth and God. It should never become a personal quarrel, never a matter in which our pride becomes the first and foremost thing to be satisfied."

Roland stroked his companion's dark hair thoughtfully, but said nothing.

"I wonder what's for supper." Turpin leaned back against the trunk of the pine tree behind him and stared searchingly at the game of tables that he and Naimes were engaged in. He picked up the dice to roll, but Naimes shook his head, saying,

"It's my turn."

"Well, pride or duty, either way, it's beastly hot," Ganelon said, sitting up from the white carpet upon which he'd been stretched out. "The sooner we're out of this hell-hole and back on Frankish soil, the better."

Roland curled his fingers in Olivier's hair and still said nothing.

"Pox," said Turpin in consternation as Naimes managed to move two pieces off the board by the end of his turn.

"You losing?" Ogier glanced over the archbishop's shoulder.

"Always." Turpin sighed. "Naimes is indomitable, a truly impregnable fortress of board game skill."

Naimes half-smiled, his eyes focused on the board.

Roland said softly, "I think pride is important as well."

"How's that?" said Olivier, glancing up at Roland.

"Pride is the cousin to honor," said Roland, "and honor is the most precious thing a man has."

"I must disagree. As I see it, pride is the bastard child of honor," Olivier replied. "It's a corruption of the righteous protection a man should afford his honor."

"These arguments are about as lucid as a winter solstice at the North Pole," Turpin said matter-of-factly, moving his piece on the tables board.

"You clearly underestimate the importance of such a discussion," Olivier said, half condescending, half teasing.

"You need to get out and play with the boys your age," Turpin replied with an equal measure of condescension and teasing, "instead of keeping company so often with old men like Naimes here. Your speech even smacks of old man influence."

"I didn't hear that, your Grace," Naimes said sweetly, rolling the dice. "It must have been my ears--I am getting old, you know. Perhaps you'd like to repeat it."

Turpin laughed, but Roland interrupted, saying, "Look over there."

They followed his pointing finger to see a small party of strangers making their way towards Charles's throne. They were clad after the custom of the Spanish Saracens, riding astride white mules decorated with golden ornaments, and they pursued their course with the certainty of men who had a vital message to impart.

"How curious," said Naimes, getting to his feet, the game forgotten.

Turpin straightened his miter and brushed off his vestments, saying, "Some message from Saragossa, no doubt."

"Finally!" Ogier leapt to his feet.

Olivier was silent, listening to Roland's breath slide in, push out, slide in, push out.

 

**VII. The muster.**

"My lord, send Roland."

Charles turned to face Ganelon, his eyes narrowing beneath thick, prickly white eyebrows. "And then who shall go in the van with me, o wise one?"

"Bring Ogier with you," replied Ganelon coolly. "No man is madder than a Dane in times of need."

The camp had fallen utterly silent, the tension palpable. Turpin exchanged a look with Naimes, who was stroking his beard with one shaking hand, his eyes reflecting the archbishop's doubt.

Finally, Ogier shattered the anxious hush with fierce pride: "I go with my lord if it is his wish."

"And I in the rear guard," added Roland with equal fierceness, "if it is my lord's will."

He maneuvered Veillantif until he stood between Ganelon and Charles, and shot a baleful look at his stepfather. "Did you think I would refuse, as you refused the staff from our lord? Do you take me so for a coward?" He bowed towards the king, saying, "Give me the command, my lord. I will make you proud."

Charles sighed, and leaned over in his saddle towards Naimes. "What say you, Naimes? My mind misgives."

"My lord, he will certainly make you proud," said Naimes slowly, noting the stubbornly pleading look Roland was shooting him. From his other side, he missed Turpin shooting him a rather different look.

Charles shook his head, and said finally, "Very well. Who will you bring with you?"

Roland's face broke out into a grin. "Only the best, my lord."

In the melee of dividing the army into rear guard and vanguard, Turpin spurred his horse to catch up to Naimes as the Bavarian followed Charles towards the head of the column.

"Naimes," Turpin said to catch the other's attention as he pulled his horse up short beside Naimes's.

Naimes turned to him, saying, "Turpin, very good. You're coming with us, Ogier and I?"

"No." Turpin threw his cloak over his shoulder and out of his way, and said without meeting his friend's eyes, "I'm going with the rear guard."

Naimes gave him a sharp look, and said, "No, you're going with Roland's guard, to be precise."

"What would you do?" said the archbishop, momentarily surprised by the cold response.

"I _am_ doing what I would do," Naimes replied harshly. "I am defending my lord and not riding off to seek glory and bloodbaths like a green bachelor."

Turpin straightened a little in his saddle, and said stiffly, "Tell the Dane I'll see him when we arrive at Bordeaux."

"Tell him yourself, sir. He shan't take it very well, I daresay." With that, Naimes spurred his horse to catch up with Charles.

"Why should he not?" Turpin yelled after the Bavarian's retreating back. "I've no reason not to go with the other Peers!"

"You're a priest! Be a priest!" Naimes yelled back, his form already distant, his words dying away on the strong wind.

"Pox on that," Turpin cursed under his breath, and stood in his stirrups, scanning the crowd for the tall Norseman. Catching sight of a shining helmet riding above the rest with thickly plaited white-blond hair snaking down out of the helmet, Turpin yelled, "Hey! Ogier!"

Ogier heard his name and turned to look, shading his eyes with one hand, and Turpin, cupping his hands around his mouth, yelled, "See you in Bordeaux, Ogier!"

The Dane, some distance away, looked as though he was shouting something in response, his hand making some urgent gesture, but the wind carried his words away before they reached Turpin, and the archbishop waved once more before wheeling his horse around to make his way back towards the rear guard.

 

**VIII. The battlefield.**

"Turpin, where are you!" Roland was yelling, screaming over the noise of the attack, swiveling frantically in his saddle as he sent Durendal crashing through armor and flesh and bone. His head was exploding, his vision burning red, beneath his thighs Veillantif was shuddering, wet red, screaming as shrilly as he was. There was nothing but noise and heat, overwhelming, smothering his senses, dust settling into his eyes, blood slipping down the back of his collar.

"Roland!"

Roland rubbed his eyes frantically, striking out madly with Durendal and craning his neck to search for the body belonging to that hoarse voice, expecting to find the archbishop's tawny horse pushing its way through the crush any moment now. Instead, the bright flash of the dying sunlight on a familiar sword blade caught his attention, and he finally caught sight of Turpin, unhorsed and hacking his way through Saracen flesh to reach Roland's side.

"There you are!" said Turpin as he staggered up to Veillantif's left flank, a blood-dripping Almace dangling limply from his right fist. His armor was nearly torn off, and beneath what remained of the tattered leather, stained red through and through, Roland thought he counted at least four different gaping wounds, one of which was still stuffed with the broken-off end of the spear that had inflicted it. The archbishop's face, scored by an ugly gash traversing the diagonal from his left temple to the right side of his jaw, was bathed in blood seeping from beneath the closed, swollen eyelid that had once harbored a keen blue-grey eye. Turpin smiled hideously when he saw Roland's horrified look, and said with a pained little shrug, "I'm still standing. _Ma foi_ , who would have guessed that a priest should prove so hardy in combat!"

Even as Roland thought to answer, he was interrupted by another volley of enemy arrows. Veillantif gave a great cry beneath him and buckled, and Roland felt himself tumbling towards the ground, dust rushing up to smother him, red everywhere in his vision. And then all was confusion, shrieking, panic, dust flying, the horns of Charles's approaching army, and the last of Turpin's strength pushing raggedly up his throat in one loud _Monjoie!_ as the Saracens called the retreat.

When Roland came to his senses again, he was lying on the ground, still partially in the saddle of his fallen horse, and Turpin was a few feet away, flat on his back, choking on his own blood in between sobbing laughs. They were alone, victorious.

Roland dragged himself out of the saddle and crawled to his friend's side. He carefully slid off the archbishop's helmet, letting loose the black hair, matted with sweat and blood, roughened and interspersed with grey hairs that Roland had never noticed until this very moment. He pulled Turpin upright and closer to his own body to ease the man's breathing, and only then did he let his gaze sweep the deserted battlefield.

"The field is yours, thanks be to God, yours and mine," Turpin murmured fiercely, gurgling a little in the back of his throat, his mangled face pressed against Roland's chest like a child at its mother's bosom.

Roland could not answer, his body racked with silently violent sobs.

"Our friends are out there," said Turpin softly, his single eye darting back and forth over the wasteland. "Olivier's out there." He could feel the low moan reverberating through his friend's body, and he shook Roland slightly, saying, "Go find them, boy. I should like to bless them one last time."

Roland obeyed without a word, laying Turpin back on the ground as gently as he could, trembling as they both were. Leaving Durendal and the oliphaunt in the archbishop's keeping, the chevalier set out to search the field, a wandering Noah staring over the devastated earth after the ebbing of the floodwaters. There, half-buried in a pile of dead men and shattered armor, he finally found what he had feared to find, and his silence broke into a long keening wail.

The archbishop glanced over just in time to see Roland fall forward onto Olivier's battered body in a dead faint.

"Oh, pox..." Turpin lay helplessly clutching the oliphaunt in both hands, wondering what could be done, when he spotted the little stream running through the midst of the carnage. "If I could just get some water for him..." Turpin mused to himself. Suddenly filled with an uncontrollable urge to achieve this, he rolled onto his stomach and began the arduous journey, dragging himself towards the water with agonizing slowness, his hands clawing the bloody mud beneath him. The water surged by, babbled by, only twenty feet away, but with each inch of progress the torturous tearing of flesh becoming more unbearable, maddening, urgent, nineteen feet away, Roland needs it, for Roland, eighteen feet nine inches away...

"Pox," said Turpin weakly, and fell forward, dead, his cheek cradled against the warm red mud.

 

**Epilogue.**

The night was closing in on the mountain pass when Naimes, duke of Bavaria, realized that he had been kneeling in one place for close to two hours, his legs asleep, spattered with the filth of the battlefield. Beside him, Ogier the Dane was lying in the mud, clutching a broken, strangely delicate body clothed in the ragged remnants of armor and vestments, weeping like a child, gasping out " _vinr, ek ann thér, vinr, vinr, vinr_ " over and over in a wild chanting litany of which Naimes understood not a word. Not far from them, Charles held his nephew in his arms, bent over the stiff young body like a tree bowed by a tempest.

"Can this be all we are born for?" Naimes said softly, his eyes fixed on the corpse's episcopal ring, barely distinguishable from beneath the mud caked onto the hand. "Is this all that our striving amounts to?"

Ogier said nothing in response, only " _vinr_."

In the distance Naimes could hear the rising moan of Gefrey of Anjou's horn echoing through the gathering dark of the gorge as a warm Spanish breeze ruffled the pine trees and the pennants of the Frankish army with gentle insistence before blowing along on towards Bordeaux.

 

 

 


End file.
